


Much to do with hate, but more with love

by talefeathers



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 11:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17786303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers/pseuds/talefeathers
Summary: It's a freezing day in February, and Mercutio is dying.





	Much to do with hate, but more with love

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day!
> 
> I’ve closed the book on my official [Valentine’s Days™](https://archiveofourown.org/series/407374), but if you thought that meant I wasn’t going to post a story about Valentine today then you thought like an idiot!
> 
> Here’s the conceit of this one, are you ready? Since everyone always does productions of _Romeo & Juliet_ in February, even though it takes place during the summer, I thought, fuck it, what if it did take place in February? What if Romeo and Juliet died on Valentine’s Day, meaning Mercutio died a couple of days before?
> 
> What if I just really, really ruined Valentine’s life? Again?
> 
> Well, now you can find out! Read on, and have fun!

“I’m sorry, Val,” Mercutio huffs, his shallow breaths turning to mist in the February air as he tries for a weak smile. “I think I’m gonna miss your birthday.”

He lies on the icy cobblestones of Verona’s city square, shivering as much from the cold as he is from blood loss. His stomach is slick with crimson, despite Benvolio’s attempts to staunch the wound there; his hands leave wine-dark stains on Valentine’s face and in his hair.

Valentine laughs, but his tears choke the sound. He knows he should throw a quip back to his brother, if only to distract him, but each riposte his mind supplies him sticks somewhere in his throat. He can only white-knuckle Mercutio’s hand in his own and hope something makes it across.

“C’mere,” Mercutio murmurs.

He reaches the hand that Valentine isn’t crushing up into Valentine’s curls. It’s gravity more than strength that pulls Valentine’s head down onto Mercutio’s shoulder, sandwiching their joined hands uncomfortably between their chests.

For a moment, Mercutio just holds him there, five fingers pressed into the back of Valentine’s skull while he wrestles air into his lungs. Valentine clutches his brother’s hand and tries to swallow his panic, tries to deepen his breathing, tries to slow frantic hammering of his heart.

Then, with an exhale, the moment ends.

The hand in Valentine’s hair loosens and falls free. Valentine squeezes his eyes shut against the fabric of Mercutio’s coat.

“Romeo,” Benvolio calls hoarsely.

Valentine hears their terse exchange, but his mind slides off their words without parsing any meaning. He presses his face into his brother’s chest, into the deafening absence of his pulse, and he doesn’t know if it’s Mercutio or himself he begs to wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

\--

Valentine is almost completely numb with cold by the time he hears a third voice speak.

“Is he…?”

Fury rumbles into his chest like distant, warning thunder.

_Tybalt._

Valentine pushes himself up onto his knees. Tybalt’s face is ashen, as if he might be sick, which somehow only makes the storm within Valentine roar louder. He climbs the rest of the way up to his feet. He takes Mercutio’s blade in his hand.

“He’s dead,” Valentine snarls. He feels a twinge of sick satisfaction when Tybalt winces at his words, but mostly it is that howling rage, that ear-splitting gale. His feet carry him forward, his fingers clench to painfulness around the hilt of his brother’s sword. “He’s _dead._ ”

He’s so intent on Tybalt that he doesn’t notice Benvolio until it is too late -- until the older boy has grabbed hold of him and locked him into place.

“Let go of me,” Valentine growls.

“Listen to me,” Benvolio pleads. Valentine wrenches against him but Benvolio holds fast. “Valentine, listen. Your uncle loses both of you if you do this.”

“Let go of me!” Valentine roars. He thrashes in Benvolio’s grip, he tries to ram his head backwards into Benvolio’s nose.

“Listen --!” Benvolio tries again, but he is cut off by the clash of steel on steel. Valentine’s head jerks toward the sound. Toward Romeo bearing down on Tybalt with a furious snarl of his own.

“No,” Valentine gasps. “No, Benvolio, let me go, please --”

Benvolio doesn’t answer him, but he doesn’t loosen his grip, either.

“ _LET ME GO!_ ” he screams, so loudly he feels torn apart. “ _BENVOLIO!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Benvolio says. “I’m sorry.”

Then Romeo’s sword bursts through Tybalt’s back.

The air rushes from Valentine’s lungs as if he’s the one that’s been stabbed. Mercutio’s sword clatters from his fingers.

“Valentine,” Benvolio says.

“Fuck off,” Valentine spits back.

Benvolio winces, but at last he lets go. He spares Valentine one last guilty look as he rushes to Romeo’s side.

Valentine stumbles back to Mercutio’s body and drops himself beside it. He takes his brother’s head in his hands and turns it to face him. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up, he begs.

When neither he nor Mercutio does, everything in him gives way.

He folds himself over his brother, clutches up fistfuls of his bloody coat, and screams.

\--

The cold is beginning to numb him again when the weight of someone’s hand falls onto Valentine’s shoulder. He jerks himself from beneath it, teeth bared.

“Don’t _fucking_ touch m --”

The words die in his throat when he sees that it’s Escalus who kneels beside him. Verona’s prince.

His and Mercutio’s uncle.

Valentine opens his mouth to apologize, but he is already being pulled into a rough embrace. Valentine sinks into it, realizing, for the first time, how exhausted he is.

“Who did this?” Escalus rasps, holding onto Valentine as if it’s the only way to keep him safe. “Val, who did this to us?”

Valentine doesn’t answer, not because he doesn’t know, but because there’s only one thing he can say now. There’s only one thing in his mind that’s worth vocalizing.

“He’s gonna miss my birthday.”


End file.
